Chapter Text
THE WORLD BEGINS WITH US
sakura garden
dies in spring; four seasons bear
beautiful blossoms
Between Eri's designs, Beat's enthusiasm, Rhyme's organisational, and Rindo's conducting, the wedding had gone so almost perfectly. First the ceremony at Meiji Shrine in the cool March breeze: sake sipped, vows read, sakaki offered, rings exchanged. The line-up of wedding dresses Shiki changed into from ceremony to reception wowed Neku in the diversity of styles Gatto Nero had brought to life: what she had sewn herself from Eri's sketches—flowing and elegant, meticulously stitched, blossoms and felines in green and gold, white wataboshi or pink kanzashi—only drew his attention to her features: her cheeks flushed as the flowers in her name, her smile radiant as the light she'd brought into his life, her eyes lovely, dark and deep.
They had offered their gratitude to her mother and father, who had supported him through those rocky first years of therapy and healing. His parents hadn't attended.
Mr. H had made a rare appearance to preside over the white wedding, his suggested vows fast, loose, and coffee-stained. Beat, his best man, had sobbed at his side and thrown him into a hair-mussing bear hug. Eri, her maid of honour, had squeezed her hand. Rhyme—stunning in an orange-coral haori—had brought the rings. Rindo, donning the Gatto-pink and Shibuya-blue dress Shiki and Eri had prepared—he recalled his lapin angelique days during his Game's hell-or-highwater—had scattered flowers up the aisle; Shoka watched in wide-eyed affection. Cheerily raising a toast, Fret had rubbed Nagi's shoulder when she had stood to give an impassioned, teary-eyed speech about her comrades-in-arms forging an even stronger pact, tempered in the fire of danger and quenched in the river of time.
Joshua hadn't shown up—hadn't in years, since abdicating the Composer's throne—but a mysterious shugi-bukuro arrived by itself, a single sky-blue feather tucked into the envelope alongside an eye-popping sum of yen and a note: have fun, Neku.
Kariya and Uzuki—former ever a harrier, latter now the Conductor—had congratulated the couple, looking not a day older than before, compared to the newlyweds' twenty-seven and twenty-eight. Even Minamimoto had arrived in-between 'artwork' and Composer duties, though mostly to wolf down wedding cake. She'd relented on allowing Coco to attend on promise of good behaviour: Shibuya's cutest fairy-princess-slash-Reaper had only bared her teeth one time at Beat before her wife Tsugumi had calmed her down.
He'd been proud of her. Coco had come a long way from the Reaper who'd shot him dead a week after saving Shibuya.
Shoka had caught the bouquet with lightning-fast reflexes and presented it to a bright-red Rindo. N'awwwing, Fret had hooked his arms around Nagi and Minamimoto's shoulders, squeezing them in alongside Mr. H, Rhyme, Beat, Eri, and the newlyweds—Coco and Tsugumi photobombing in the corner—for a group wedding selfie against the budding spring greenery at Hachiko.
Yes, the wedding had gone so almost perfectly.
Almost.
One thing amiss: the sakura forecast had gotten the date wrong, winter casting a longer shadow than expected. Shibuya wouldn't glow pink for another few days. He'd offered to postpone the wedding. She'd taken his hand.
"Who cares if the sakura are late?" she'd whispered, her smile equal parts playful and solemn. "If we want to know what flowers next year will bring, we'll plant them ourselves."
And now, with the festivities finished, gifts given to guests and tearful hugs exchanged, the two of them had returned to the apartment they'd shared for nine years, kimono peeled off, yawns mirrored, giggles exchanged, hands held. Their hands roamed everywhere in the unlit closet as they helped each other change, familiarity with their bodies and habits precluding the need for light. The way he tugged on her pyjama top while tickling her navel, how she buried her face in his chest as she unbuttoned his shirt: they hadn't just come together into each other's lives like perfect puzzle pieces, but fumbled in the dark for years of practise, reaching for one another, asking questions, speaking up, listening patiently and tenderly.
They'd fumble on for the rest of their lives, re-forging their pact with every moment they chose one another; they'd fumble on together.
She stretched out on the futon, her shirt rucked up, and sleepily waved him over. Laughing softly, he clambered into bed by her side, the fingers of his right hand brushing over the inlet of her left wrist before slipping into her palm. Her fingers closed around his; her thumb circled lazily over his knuckles. He could feel the callouses where she'd held needles for hours. She pulled him down towards her. Feeling for the blanket behind him, he covered them both and lowered himself onto her, their legs loosely intertwined, his face resting on her chest.
"I'm too tired to do anything else tonight," he admitted into the slow thumping of her heart. "I love you, Shiki."
Her right palm alighted on his head. Years ago, during the Game, when she reached for his shoulder, he'd slapped her hand away, pressed his 'phones against his ears. Now he closed his eyes as she stroked his hair, tilting up into her hand. "No wonder you closed the café for the month if you're gonna hibernate."
"Hey, I'll be awake to check the family registry fixed tomorrow."
"And then you'll hibernate? Inspiring."
"Well, I'd been considering spending the month with you, but maybe I should open Mewsic back up tomorrow." She flicked her forefinger against his head and he grinned into her nightshirt. "And by open it back up, I mean just for the two of us. Sometimes I just wanna be with you."
Her fingers tangled in his hair. "Sometimes I wanna be with you too."
"And the rest of those times you wanna be working at Gatto Nero." The teasing edge to his voice gave way under the weight of his pride. "I better savour this honeymoon while it lasts, since I know you're gonna be—" She scritched her nails lightly. "—right by my side for life, as long as you want to be."
"It might've taken you twelve years, but you finally figured it out." The tenderness in her voice warmed the tips of his ears. "Gosh, guess that's the mission for today." Her hand slipped down to poke his cheek with her thumb. "I didn't even have to call you a chicken this time."
"Hey, I'm not a chicken. I thought we'd agreed. I'm a cat."
She giggled. "I know what you are."
"Better than I do? I'm all ears."
"You're the man I love."
He met her gaze, those dark eyes that drew him in. He'd fallen willingly then, and he'd fall again, over and over, choosing to fall in love with her all over again every day. "Yeah." His voice sounded a little hoarse. "Yeah, I am." Her giggle opened into a laugh. He laughed with her, warm and soft in this space between her and the blanket, hands joined, pyjamas smelling of them both. He could relax into her, barely able to tell where she ended and he began, muscles untensing, heart slowing. The years had made the shadows dance less frequently in the corners of his eyes, sounds mistaken for gunshots less likely to set his jaw firm and his blood roaring in his ears.
But only in these quiet moments with her did he feel truly safe.
Reaching up towards her as they'd both reached towards each other for years, he curled his fingers under her chin to cradle her jaw. She leaned into his touch, cheek nestled in his palm.
"...hey, Neku?"
"Yeah?"
"About the family registry..."
He traced a heart on her jaw. When she closed her eyes, her lashes rested so softly on the curves of her cheeks. "I'm serious."
"I know! That's the problem. When you put your mind to something, you can do anything. Including being a stubborn blockhead." She squeezed his hand, her fingers warm on his knuckles. "I just...want to be sure. I don't mind taking on your name. Or we could just both keep our own names."
He ran his thumb along the fringe of her lashes until she lifted her lids, her irises glimmering wetly. "Shiki, I love you."
"I love you too..."
"And I want to take your name. I know you can be just as blockheaded as I am and you won't stop being conscientious until after our personal stamps get registered. But I'm serious. It's been nine years since I came back, and I've never been so sure about anything in my life—other than marrying you."
The corners of her eyes crinkled. "You sap."
"So I'm giving up the sakura garden. I'm not dying when the spring ends. If we want to know what flowers next year will bring, we'll plant them ourselves, right? I'll plant your beautiful blossoms year-round, because I'm not going away again, Shiki. I made that promise for you and for me. I'm not just some—some sakura blossom you see for a week and then have to wait three years until I'm in your arms again." He gripped onto her hand. When she clenched him that tightly back, he didn't have to look at her to imagine how her knuckles had paled, how the faint scar between the third and the fourth stood out in a ridge. She'd gotten that scar just last year, a slip against the kitchen counter: she'd sleepily hugged him from behind while he cooked her breakfast, only to trip on his sock.
He loved her so much. Now and always.
He'd learned her hands, and he'd learn her ever-changing hands again every time he held them, all the changes sudden and gradual over the twelve years they'd known each other and the fifty, sixty, seventy they'd have into the future.
"I know, Neku. I know you're not going anywhere ever again. I've never been so sure of anything in my life—" She smiled so broadly that her eyes squinched up. "—other than marrying you."
"You sap." He couldn't suppress the curve of his mouth. "Well, Misaki Shiki, will you forge this ever-changing pact with me?"
She tugged up on his hand, and he went willingly, shimmying himself up closer to her until he could poke her nose with his, the faint aroma of strawberry wedding cake on her breath.
The sakura hadn't bloomed yet, but it didn't matter. Long after the final petal had fallen, the beautiful blossoms of the garden they would plant together would still grow. The flowers they had started planting years ago by themselves, the flowers they planted with their friends and family, and the flowers that they would plant long into the future. Someday, after their hands had grown too weak to keep planting, had ceased holding one another, had passed back to dust, the soil they had tilled and the land they had watered would keep blooming.
No more transient weeks snatched from between the jaws of death. He'd stayed with her for all four seasons of her name and he'd stay with her for all four seasons of her life.
The ephemeral beauty of the carefully tended sakura garden could fall away. In its place the wilds of beautiful blossoms would bloom on, tangled and thorny and lovely as the woman with whom he'd share his name, his hand, and his life: the ripples of their actions and their love throughout their beloved Shibuya's concrete jungle.
He'd wear that hope on his name—their name—until the end, just as he'd hold her hand in his, his partner for life.
She whispered the words into his lips, her hand holding on so tightly to his that he knew neither of them would ever let go.
"As long as I'm with you...we can do this, Misaki Neku." Her gaze: soft as his smile. "It won't be seamless, but it'll be ours, for the rest of our lives."
"Ours. Yeah, it's ours," he murmured into the kiss. "The world begins with us."